Burks broke open the gun, examined the shells, then squinted through the barrel. Still unsatisfied, he pulled out his handkerchief, thrust it into the gun and twisted it around. Then he examined the cambric intently and shook his head.
“Clean as a whistle. No smoke here, and all the cartridges new! This gun hasn’t been fired tonight. You didn’t kill this man, that’s plain, but you’ll have to take a trip to headquarters anyway, and likely pay a fine. There’s a law in this state that says—”
Silas Howe interrupted angrily. “I have a permit,” he said. “You can’t annoy me like that, inspector, though I know you’d like to — after the expose of police graft I made some years ago; but, see here—” he produced a piece of paper, a pistol permit, and waved it triumphantly in the inspector’s face. “In the reform work I do my life is in constant peril. What happened here tonight shows that this is true. That man came to murder me, and I want to offer thanks to whoever shot him.”
Burks grunted in irritation. His pale face looked still paler. He was in a mood to make trouble for some one. He turned on his assistants.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this. We’ll search every man and woman in this room. This fellow may have been a dopy, but I want to know who killed him. Porter, and you, Kendal, round the folks up. Hunt for a gun, and don’t stop till you find it!”
The two detectives snapped into action instantly. Their skilled, experienced fingers went through men’s pocket and women’s bags and compacts. They were systematic about it, marshaling those who had been searched to one side of the room, keeping the others in a corner. Even Paula Rockwell and Whitney Blake himself were not excluded.
The Count de Ronfort submitted to a search smilingly. Then it was “X’s” turn, and, as the two detectives approached him, all color drained from Betty Dale’s face. Fear made shadows in her eyes. She had hoped the Agent would make a break before this. Yet “X” could not, for suspicion would have reflected back on Betty, since he was her escort.
Now it was too late — and Betty knew that Agent “X” carried various devices to assist him in his strange battle with crime. She had seen them many times, and the thought that they would be found by the police made her blood run cold.
Their presence on the person of Ben Buchanan, supposed clubman, would reveal him instantly as Secret Agent “X,” a man hunted and hounded by Burks as a criminal, and a man wanted by the police of a dozen cities for questioning in connection with crime cases that were still a mystery to them.
Betty Dale held her breath. Deep in her heart she loved this strange, mysterious man whose real face she had never seen. She had hidden her love carefully, pledging herself that it must never interfere with the career he had chosen. But when death and danger threatened him, she found it hard to suppress her emotion.
Inspector Burks stood now with his eagle eyes fastened on the Agent and a gun in an armpit holster close to his hand. And, as the two plain-clothes men reached for the man they knew as Ben Buchanan, it seemed to Betty Dale that she was going to faint.
Chapter VIII
HOLDING her body rigid Betty Dale watched as the detectives searched him. Seconds seemed to drag as their hands went systematically through his clothing. But all they found was a key, a handkerchief and a wallet containing the identification card of Ben Buchanan. There were mocking glints in the Secret Agent’s eyes.
Betty Dale gave a little sigh of relief; but she was puzzled. “X” always carried strange instruments on his person. Now he didn’t even have his specially made chromium tools. Yet a short while before Betty herself had seen a cigarette lighter in his hand, the one with the tiny lever that released a jet of anesthetizing vapor.
When the detectives had passed on to another of Blake’s guests, Betty glanced at the Agent questioningly. He drew her aside and whispered a quick explanation.
“That bookcase over against the wall,” he said. “I’m glad the inspector isn’t interested in Greek tragedy. I pulled out a volume of Aeschylus when he wasn’t looking and hid certain things behind it.”
“X” retrieved his mysterious equipment as dexterously as he had hidden it. Then he turned his attention to the work of the police. Blue-coats had been dispatched to search the apartment. They had discovered the means used by the intruder to reach the penthouse.
A rope had been thrown up over the balcony railing from a set-back ledge on the floor below. This floor held several empty apartments. The man could easily have hidden in one of them, or in a deserted corridor until he was ready to break into Blake’s penthouse.
There was no clue, however, as to who had turned off the lights. Apparently no one in the drawing room was responsible. Several switches showed along the walls. Inspector Burks tested them. Each controlled a row of lights, but no master switch could be found in the room. Agent “X” was lynx-eyed with alertness, listening, watching.
The sudden entry and shooting of the wild-appearing stranger had flung a pall of horror over the party. And the mystery of his death was deepening each second.
The medical examiner’s statement that the man had been a drug addict started Silas Howe on another harangue.
“That’s right,” he cried vehemently. “He was a hophead, and he came here to murder me. My life isn’t safe anywhere. But danger won’t stop me. My course is set. I’ll smash all barriers in my fight against the drug evil. You see now, Blake, what great need there is for funds! As a close neighbor of yours I must ask again that you contribute.”
Whitney Blake merely grunted. He ignored the reformer’s final plea. This dampened Howe’s enthusiasm for a while. But soon he singled out a pretty, wealthy debutante who had been to the bar once too often. He began picturing to her the horrors of the drug, stirring her alcoholic imagination, as an aid in soliciting funds.
Agent “X” nudged Betty, and for a time his eyes intently studied the gaunt, leathery face of the reformer.
Inspector Burks began the weary routine of questioning all those in the room at the time of the shooting. He got nowhere. A dozen people had been standing in front of the maniac when he burst through the French windows. Any one of them could have seen his silhouette against the outside glow when the lights went off. Any one with a gun could have shot him. But Silas Howe’s was the only weapon to be found, and that hadn’t been fired. Unseen, horrible death, like the spirit of evil itself, seemed to be present at the party. Men and women shuddered.
“X” was in accord with Burks’s theory that the shooting had been done by some one now in the room. But who was it? He had not forgotten that his purpose in coming had been to investigate Count Remy de Ronfort. Yet the Frenchman seemed the most unperturbed person there. And not even a pocket-knife had been found in his possession.
After the names and addresses of the guests had been taken by the police, Burks announced that they were free to go. But he warned them that any and all were subject to call as witnesses.
“And I won’t hesitate to subpoena you, either,” he added threateningly.
The inspector was in a savage mood. Some one had turned a common, self-defense shooting into a complicated affair, with possibly a hidden motive. Burks grew more ugly when his men finished searching the body and reported that there were no visible means of identification.
Agent “X,” pointing to the man’s shoes, spoke with a touch of irony, “Those are custom-made, inspector. They were good shoes once, though they are in bad shape now. Acid or something has spotted and rotted them. Even at that they provide a lead for any detective who knows his job.”